


So Says the Speaker

by Rednaelo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Friendships, M/M, Partners to Lovers, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Rednaelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steeljaw can’t believe his luck that out of the many strangers he could’ve approached, he walked right up to the leader of one of Cybertron’s largest crime syndicates and offered to buy him a drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Says the Speaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FoxyTurttle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxyTurttle/gifts).



> haha just kill me.  
> OKAY SO. THIS IS. A STORY FOR FOXYTURTTLE, ONE WHOLE YEAR IN THE MAKING (jesus fucking christ). And for the delay, I'm apologizing but also thanking you with every single atom that makes up my personage for waiting because, holy hell, just thank you so much. 
> 
> I ended up taking a different approach to your request by putting them on Cybertron rather than Earth but I still encapsulated everything you wanted from it. I think. I hope!!!! Um, just, thank you again, and you're wonderful and I'm really happy you're my follower and that you came to me to write you this story even though it took me forgoddamever. I hope your life is going well and if it isn't, or even if it is, I hope this brings you some joy.
> 
> So much love <3
> 
> -Bec

So the war is over. 

It’s not, but it is in the mind of the many.  The symbols once brightly emblazoned upon every chassis have become somewhat of a taboo.  Still it remains that one jagged purple emblem is a mite more unacceptable than the softer edges of the red one.  Steeljaw gets dirty looks the first few nights he wanders the city.  Smatterings of fear and disdain and rage.  No one says a damn thing because the peace on Cybertron is as penetrable as a single skein of silk but Steeljaw is no fool and he claws through his Decepticon insignia after some nameless steamroller spits oil onto his pedes.

Same night he goes to one of those slapdash constructed pubs and flicks a couple of shanix on the counter so he can fill his tanks with high grade.  Tastes like it’s distilled from straight up slag but it burns so beautifully and he hasn’t had his lips around anything so bitterly potent in centuries.  He doesn’t bother trying to keep his tail from swishing in pleasure.  The barkeep eyes the scratches on his chest and his optics are very much non-judgmental.  Steeljaw laps drops of engex from the rim of his tankard and pushes coins across the counter - a tip to keep the glass full. 

There’s barely a spark in this hole in the wall.  It’s dark and held together by weak caulking and the neon of the sign outside is scavenged in different colors and rotted piping but Steeljaw thinks the place has character.  Its dreariness is more honest about the state of Cybertron and its people than the towering visage of Optimus Prime in the center square of this city.  The ex-mercs murmuring to each other in the corner with their optics lowered when they aren’t scanning the crowd for possibly eavesdroppers – they’re a hell of a lot more in tune with the way things are than the assembled council that are steadily growing to convene in the halls of some new government building.

There are new laws to be enforced, now.  Brand new boundaries to set.  Steeljaw runs a clawtip around the rim of his glass and listens to the soft ring of it, hushed beneath the grumblings of the few inside the pub.

The war is over.  The way is clear now and Steeljaw thinks over this battered and blank canvas of a city, wondering what sort of marks he can make on it.  He thumbs at the gouges through the Decepticon insignia on his chestplate and leaves his glass behind on the bar when he hears the ex-mercs in the corner trade rumors about the prison ships being brought back to Cybertron.

It’s a good a place to start as any.

* * *

 The night feels as blazingly bright as ever even though there are only a scant few buildings that have lights around.  The Courthouse plaza is kept dark but is nonetheless full of people: a long line of steadily proceeding prisoners going into the courthouse and a milling, murmuring crowd spread around the steps.  Steeljaw watches from a nearby corner next to a grease-cake vendor who’s having a hard time roping in any customers.  Steeljaw already turned down the offer for a freshly made cake with a placating smile and no words at the turn of his tail.  He has other things to focus on.

Some of the convicts go in and come right back out, crowing to the black and glowing sky with cheers as they have been pardoned for crimes committed in an age where no matter what you did, you were always breaking _someone’s_ law.  It just mattered who caught you in the act and if they liked your reasons.  Autobots and Decepticons alike, they’re all brought in and shooed out.  A good handful of them are, anyway.  They find friends and comrades out amongst the crowds and join with them to go celebrate.

Others walk up the courthouse steps and never come back out again.  By the letter of the new law, what they had once done was dastardly enough to keep them locked up for an extended trial and then proper sentencing.  Steeljaw leans against the lamppost and wonders just how many true criminals have been let out into the streets.  The whole system is exceedingly sloppy, he thinks, and watches as another lucky one struts down the courthouse steps.  This one is quiet with his head held high and his glowing red eyes sharp in the night.  No one calls out to him as he descends and he doesn’t search the throng for any familiar sight.

This one, Steeljaw decides, and leaves his spot on the corner to approach him.

He gets a face full of jagged antlers at first – and isn’t that just a funny coincidence, another beastlike rootmode mech – and then once he offers to buy the lucky one a couple of fresh grease cakes in exchange for a little chat at that hole-in-the-wall pub, he gets those leery eyes narrowing in thought and then a curt, “Bettah not waste my time with this, punk.”

“I assure you, brother,” Steeljaw says, extending a friendly hand towards the vendor (now looking hopeful that he’s been noticed by absolutely anyone), “I merely thought that someone should offer you congratulations, since there seemed to be no volunteers.”

The stranger, this lucky one of many, gives a silent jerk of his helm and his steps are heavy behind Steeljaw’s stride back towards the corner.  He isn’t saying much now but Steeljaw has a feeling it will be a rather easy task to persuade his new acquaintance to regale him with a few stories.  After all, it’s rather easy to bond with those who were once upon a time within your same faction.

Steeljaw eyes the Decepticon insignia on the mech’s chest and serenely considers tearing through it right here in the middle of the street.  He doesn’t.  And when they reach the grease cake vendor, the antlered ex-con smacks a few coins down on the counter, telling Steeljaw he can pay for the drinks.  Steeljaw smirks and gives a satisfied nod.       

* * *

There’s no question that Thunderhoof would be a valuable ally.  Steeljaw can’t believe his luck that out of the many strangers he could’ve approached, he walked right up to the leader of one of Cybertron’s largest crime syndicates and offered to buy him a drink.  Steeljaw buys him several, in fact.  Tall steins of the quality-filtered engex that goes down smoother than starlight.  It puts a wide smile on Thunderhoof’s mouth and a quietly kept grin across Steeljaw’s fangs.  Luck, nothing; he praises his own intuition as he leans over the table in the little pub and fiddles with tilting his own glass back and forth.

“So what are your plans now, Thunderhoof?” Steeljaw asks as they’re into their third round.  “You’re free from incarceration in the dawning day of our new and unified Cybertron.  What’s next on the list?”

Thunderhoof’s smile slips away for a handful of seconds, a shadow rising up in the glow of his optics.  But then he seems to grab that darkness by the horns and yank it aside. 

“Gave it some thought,” Thunderhoof starts as he leans back, casual as you please, in the booth and watches Steeljaw with the kind of intent focus one only has when they’re overcharged and aware that they still can’t for a second drop their guard.  “I was thinkin’ ‘bout maybe pickin’ up where I left off.  Nothin’ was ever bettah than when I had my mechs all lined up and runnin’ like clockwork to enrich ourselves.  Problem is that most ‘a those guys is toast now.  All locked up or dead as lugnuts. I ain’t got the resources I had then and I ain’t got the means to try and scrape any together.”

“Which is where I come in.”

Thunderhoof narrows his optics and slouches a little further into the booth seat, putting one hooved pede on the ledge of the table as he folds his arms across his chestplates.

“Outta nowheres, youse drop outta the fraggin’ sky to make nice with me and now suddenly youse gots it in your head to dip your claws into some shady business.  What kinda fool you take me for, huh?” 

“You’re no fool,” Steeljaw says, shaking his head with his most placating smile.  “You’re a businessman.  So you know to get all the details before you agree to anything.”

Thunderhoof’s field buzzes and pulses, testing deliberately at Steeljaw for deceit.

“I also think it would be in poor taste to discuss such serious business so soon after our first meeting,” Steeljaw continues.  “Let’s get to know each other a little better before we go down that road.  Tonight, let’s just drink.  Let’s celebrate.  Let’s be friends for a while.”

“It’s fun for you to play pretend,” Thunderhoof says with a sneer before picking up his glass again.  His field withdraws from its prickling onslaught.  Steeljaw just chuckles and gives a half shrug.

“I don’t see you leaving,” he says simply. 

“Not as long as youse buying.”

“I’m buying all night.”

“Then it ain’t so bad to play pretend.  I’ll be your friend tonight.”  Thunderhoof drinks his glass dry and then slams it down onto the table.  “Tomorrow is another story.”

Steeljaw nods and gestures the barkeep over for round four.

“Indeed it is.” 

* * *

 They part when the night is over and that’s all there is to it.  They don’t exchange comm frequencies or decide on a second time and place to meet.  And Thunderhoof doesn’t even ask how Steeljaw plans on finding him again.  Either he doesn’t care or he knows well enough that Steeljaw would find him if that’s what he really wanted.  Steeljaw himself isn’t too sure of the extent of his acquaintance’s interpersonal intuition.  He decides that one way or another, it doesn’t matter.  He has his own interests to look after.  He’ll return to Thunderhoof when he becomes relevant again.

Before that, Steeljaw takes time to learn his city better.  He slinks among the alleys and scopes the corners where the darkness pours in heavily.  He finds empty warehouses and spends days mapping underground tunnels, planting signs and symbols that only he himself can parse until the time comes that he can share the knowledge with and comrades he gathers.  He chuckles to himself as he crawls along a low-ceilinged cavern and thinks of Thunderhoof scuffing his antlers against the walls and cursing in a spit of mashed-up slang.  It would be amusing but maybe Steeljaw will keep this tunnel for himself.

He spends his nights recharging in one of those rent-by-the-night communal habitation blocks.  It’s in a squalid side of town and the proprietor is so desperate for anyone to give him even a peek at their credit chits that when Steeljaw declined to leave his designation for the record books with the assurance of twice the daily rent, the mech just nodded and took the shanix without even a quirked browplate.  Eventually he’ll find a more permanent residence but for now this is enough to keep him safe and anonymous. 

The habsuite is small and has a single recharge berth, a nutrition-grade fuel dispenser, and a sectioned off corner with a sliding glass partition to serve as a washrack and it’s enough.   Steeljaw washes the slum grime off of his plating and tries to imagine the amenities he could provide himself if everyone within the urban sprawl of Cybertron knew his name, his face, knew exactly what he could do to each and every one of them if he were so inclined.  It all seems a faraway prospect at the moment.  But one day he will flex his claws and speak gently and crowds will tremble.  Optics will lower and armies will move at a single word.

The fantasy is a heady one.

Steeljaw shakes off all the excess solvent in a rapid twitch and shudder, droplets spraying against the close walls of the washrack and then he leaves it to go sit atop the berth and trace the arc of Luna 1 from his grimy window. 

Fantasies aside, there is no victory achieved alone.  He needs pawns.  He needs mechs willing to kneel down so he can use their necks as stepping stones.  He needs strong hands to boost him up and loud voices to shout down anyone who would disagree.  He needs faithful.  He needs devoted.  And it wouldn’t help to have a few adoring suitors.

For now, it’s enough to start with a capable partner.    

Steeljaw snaps his fangs together with a smile and thinks about the ways he can offer a most intriguing invitation. 

* * *

 Thunderhoof is surprised for half a second and then he’s scowling halfheartedly, pretending like right behind that sneer there isn’t a smile trying to come through.  Steeljaw smiles.  Pleasantly, even.

“Didn’t take you one for places like this,” he says and his voice is loud but that’s only because the music is louder.  Booming.  There are plenty of dance clubs all over the city.  There’s a good business for them in this time since everyone seems to have come home just for the sole purpose of celebrating.  Autobots have, anyway.  Decepticons don’t spend as much time in clubs. 

Some do, though.  Steeljaw settles himself in the booth right next to Thunderhoof and leans casually close to him.  The better to hear you over the bass, my dear friend….

To his credit, Thunderhoof doesn’t shift away but tilts his helm just so his great antlers don’t collide with Steeljaw and bends towards a perked ear to answer.

“Noise helps me think.”

Steeljaw smirks.

“And what are you thinking on today?”  Some svelte young speeder comes whisking by and Steeljaw gently turns down his offer to fetch him something from the bar.  He watches Thunderhoof scan the dance floor and listens as one song crossfades into another, the crowd cheering as it does.  Must be a popular favorite.  More mechs push onto the dancefloor.  Some retreat, biolights strobing and cooling fans whirring at topspeed to cool off and refuel.

“Youse ever heard of the Psions?”

Steeljaw tilts his helm closer towards Thunderhoof and puts his arm around the back of the seat, almost like an old friend just cozying up to a buddy he hasn’t seen in a while.  Thunderhoof just waits for the answer, though his field bumps up against Steeljaw’s curiously.  He’s strangely yielding.  And, sure, Steeljaw’s only had the one night to make impressions and learn as much as he could.  But it was enough.  Thunderhoof’s character isn’t exactly a maze to work through.

“They’re causing you some trouble,” he guesses.  Thunderhoof snorts a grunt and it’s hot against Steeljaw’s ear, making it flick in reaction.

“They’s a step ahead ‘a me already,” he says, disappointment furrowing his browplates.  “Haven’t even gotten half a week to get my act together an’ I’m outta the race.”

“You sell yourself short,” Steeljaw says, frowning.

“No.  I’m busted with nothin’.  You, on the otha hand….”  Thunderhoof tilts his helm to one side again and looks down at Steeljaw with a real smile coming through this time.  “You said you were in my corner.  I ain’t got no corner now but I’ll be in yours if we can do somethin’ ‘bout these dumbaft Psions.”

Steeljaw’s tail curls in pleasure and he resists the urge to preen, taking a single claw and skimming it along the sweating glass of highgrade on the table in front of them.

“I think it’s a reasonable deal,” he says.  Thunderhoof snorts again, a strong whuff of agreement.  “And here I was thinking that I’d have to twist your arm to get you to work with me.”

“Twist nothin’, boss,” Thunderhoof says. 

He can make enemies if it means gaining an ally who will serve him well in the long-run. 

“Think youse could hook me up with a place to bunk?  Psions blew up the whole gaddam building I was livin’ in.”

Steeljaw looks back up at Thunderhoof.

“They blew up your home?”

“Arson.  Think the owner of the place owed ‘em some protection pay and wouldn’t dish up.”

Steeljaw frowns.  He may not be well-versed in the methods of urban gang violence but that seems like a particularly poor move.  A waste of resources and life just to exact vengeance for not coming up with protection money.  There’s subtler, more personal ways to fix that problem.  Steeljaw can already tell these Psions are a bunch of amateurs.  Which is saying something since Steeljaw himself is rather new to this game.

“I don’t have the means to relocate you at the moment,” Steeljaw admits without an ounce of shame.  Thunderhoof doesn’t look put-off.  “But I can give you some money and you can lease a room in the rental block I’m staying out right now.  When we upturn their organization, you can use their headquarters as yours.”

Thunderhoof grins and pushes the glass of high-grade straight into Steeljaw’s hand.  Steeljaw closes his fingers around the cube and the warm pressure of Thunderhoof’s back settles against his arm that’s still slung along the back of the booth.

“I’ll take care of youse too, boss,” Thunderhoof says, grin still stuck across his mouth.  It makes him look like a buffoon.

“You’re drunk,” Steeljaw says, amused.  Thunderhoof lifts up another cube and toasts to him in agreement.  

* * *

 When they leave the club, the first tendrils of dawn are stealing over the horizon and amongst the buildings.  Thunderhoof, still quite plastered from his hours-long trysts with the engex, wraps loose fingers around Steeljaw’s wrist and tugs him down a side alley.  And though Steeljaw is alert and immediately ready to shred into Thunderhoof if he tries to do anything funny, he doesn’t have to.  Thunderhoof presses his own back against the cement of the building and brings Steeljaw’s hand up to touch it to the Decepticon insignia still branded into his chassis.

“Tear it through,” Thunderhoof huffs, a little breathless, his eyes glowing hot in the twilight.  “You’d do that for me, yeah?”

Steeljaw raises a brow at him.

“What sort of show are we making with this?” he asks.

“Youse doin’ me a solid,” Thunderhoof says with a shrug.  His great shoulders heave up and slump back down and it’s a careless sort of gesture but the intensity in his gaze speaks of some sort of enlightenment.  “Least I’d do is give a demonstration of my loyalty.”

Steeljaw’s clawtips dig gently into Thunderhoof’s chestplate, scratching just at the surface, five lines of curling paint nanites ribboning off in needle-thin filaments.  Thunderhoof draws in a shuddering vent and his antlers scuff the wall as his helm tilts back.

“I accept,” Steeljaw says, with the sort of solemnity and underlying pleasure that could only emerge from an opportunity to wield power and violence as a symbol of ownership.  His subvocals purr with satisfaction and he draws his claws back to strike.

He does it quickly because he doesn’t actually enjoy damaging mechs who don’t deserve it.  The sound is sharp and ugly but Thunderhoof doesn’t even grunt in pain, his gaze unblinking the whole time, focused only on Steeljaw’s face.  The two of them match now, jagged lines cutting through the purple insignia, the mark of their past.  Thunderhoof stands very still and breathes and after the echo of the blow has faded. He smiles at Steeljaw.

“Stings like slag,” he gruffs.  Steeljaw chuckles and thumbs over the gouges in his own plating with a sort of absent fondness.  He remembers the pain but he didn’t have anyone to laugh with after the smart of it.  “Hurts, but the change feels good,” Thunderhoof adds.  Steeljaw turns his head aside to gaze back towards the entrance of the alleyway; Thunderhoof ends up missing the golden glint in Steeljaw’s optics.

“I grow fonder of you with each passing moment, Thunderhoof,” he says and motions for his more-or-less officially sanctioned partner to follow.

“You’d say that ‘bout anyone who’d scratch their symbols through for you,” Thunderhoof answers, peeling himself away from the wall and trudging gently along.

“But you’re the first,” Steeljaw insists.  “That counts for something.” 

* * *

 Steeljaw doesn’t really bother asking where Thunderhoof’s change in opinion came from.  Their first meeting, Thunderhoof was vehemently untrusting and their second, nothing changed except for now Thunderhoof had a very tangible obstacle to overcome.  It wasn’t as if Steeljaw had ever really demonstrated to him that he could be relied upon.  He figures to himself that Thunderhoof was either too drunk to care, too desperate to turn down help, or too inconsistent to stick with his own principles. 

He doesn’t know and he still doesn’t bother asking.  He’ll more than likely figure out the true answer in time and depending on which reason, he can drop Thunderhoof as soon as he stops being useful.  Until then, Steeljaw is up one ally who can steamroll a dozen mechs in a minute flat and who also has an extensive history in Cybertron’s criminal underground.

For now, Thunderhoof sleeps in Steeljaw’s one rented habsuite, recharging to knock off the inebriation.  Steeljaw requests a second room form the proprietor and declines to leave his name again but does leave double the tip to keep his silence.  Soon, Steeljaw thinks, it will be a good idea to find somewhere permanent and hidden to keep himself and his eventual allies.  He thinks with a smile that perhaps wherever these Psions are will be a more than adequately defensible position.  He has to learn a little more first. 

Steeljaw curls up on the berth and makes his plans. 

* * *

 Those plans are skewed when Thunderhoof tells him the next day that he has plans of his own.

“I know wheres they are,” Thunderhoof says, his arms folded over the scratches on his chest.  Steeljaw finds the pinch between his browplates growing familiar and rather annoyingly so.  “We go in an’ take ‘em out.”

“So why did you even need me?  For lodging?” Steeljaw blinks slowly, his field drawn in tight around him.

“Nah, Boss, I know wheres they are and that we gotta go in and bust ‘em up but no one’s gonna get it done right bettah than youse is.”

Steeljaw takes a moment and cycles his ventilation.  Roughshod, that much, but at least it’s not an answer that makes him want to break everything within reach.

“Flattery will only get you so far,” he says, the words falling flat as his tail whips back and forth with impatience.

“Look, it’s gonna take more ‘n a show ‘a force to get these guys to crumble, a’right?” Thunderhoof says.  “I got street smarts, sure, but they take one look at me and they knows there’s gonna be a drag-out fight.  You got a new face around here and youse damn good at getting’ people talkin’, I know for myself.”  Steeljaw tilts his head to one side and doesn’t let his eyes leave Thunderhoof’s face.  Scrutinizing.  Testing.

“I do the talking, you do the heavy lifting,” Steeljaw eventually says.  Thunderhoof nods.  To his credit, he doesn’t even back down under Steeljaw’s dissecting stare but waits, patient, for whatever judgement to befall him.  “Lucky that you could intuitively understand the method I would’ve employed myself.  It’ll do.”  Thunderhoof just smiles.  “I won’t appreciate you making any more plans that involve me without me.  Understand?”

“Absolutely, Boss.”

“Good.   Let’s go.” 

* * *

 “I think it’s important to learn from mistakes,” Steeljaw says conversationally as he perches himself on the arm of this rather crudely constructed ‘throne.’  It’s more or less just piled up cinderblocks bracing a chair that was probably dragged off of a curb and stripped down.  The occupant of the throne is only paying Steeljaw marginal attention, too focused on the spectacular sight of Thunderhoof holding up one of the last remaining survivors of the rather slapdash but incredibly brutal beatdown that had befallen the hideout.  And here Steeljaw was thinking that this haphazard group of thugs might actually be more than just a nuisance.  The bot struggling to free throat from Thunderhoof’s grasp gurgles and coughs wetly.  Steeljaw smiles.  The leader of the Psions looks like he’s about to bust a gasket.

“You can learn from the mistakes of others as well as your own,” Steeljaw continues.  “Go ahead and take a guess: what was your mistake?”

He reaches under the mech’s chin and very gently turns it so they can look each other in the eyes. 

“I’ll never displease you again,” the mech says.  Steeljaw’s optics sparkle with amusement.  He doesn’t even know this mech’s designation but they’re already willing to submit to his will.  It’s funny.  It’s rather invigorating.

“Oh, I know it,” Steeljaw says.  “I’d keep you for myself but judging by the ease of access to your terribly unorganized gang, I can only conclude that you’re completely inept.”  The mech’s optics widened in panic as Steeljaw’s claws began to dig into the side of his face.  “And I learned from my mistakes: don’t rely on anyone who can only provide laughable results.” 

Steeljaw has no idea what his face looks like but he can see how the fear in this mech is blooming wide like a wave swelling from a storm.  It’s in the way their optics are dilating like crazy and their cooling fans just started screaming.  It’s in the way they’re spluttering and spitting up energon as Steeljaw punctures their intake with the claw of his thumb.  Steeljaw doesn’t laugh but he will later.

He throws the mech off the throne and says,

“Thunderhoof, erase this waste of scrap.”

“You got it.”

Steeljaw doesn’t watch but dusts off the seat of the newly vacated throne and then frowns at it.  He kicks it over instead of sitting.  When he turns back around, Thunderhoof is standing there with the last remains of the Psions strewn about his pedes and splashes of energon up his arms, across his marred chestplate and smeared on his cheek.  Steeljaw brings a hand to his mouth to hide the sudden smile that decided to show up.

“It’s a good look for you, that,” Steeljaw says before turning back around.  “Makes you the beast that you are.”

“You’re the one who’s a beast, Boss.”  And Steeljaw chuckles gently as he toes away another corpse.  Behind him, Thunderhoof is shifting very slightly.  Rolling his shoulders or loosening the tightness of his plating now that the fight is done.  Every now and then, there is a very soft ‘plip!’ of liquid hitting the dirty cement below.  Thunderhoof groans out a sigh and it peals off into a low laugh.  Vindicated.  He looks so fetching when he’s feral….

“Clean this place up and then yourself and meet me back here,” Steeljaw commands, “I’m going to go exploring to see if they actually have anything useful in this dump.”

He doesn’t stick around to hear an acknowledgement of any sort but ducks under the one roll-top warehouse door to do exactly as he had said he would.  He doubts the Psions possess anything remotely noteworthy but it was already something he was planning on doing.  Even if they don’t have much and the base itself isn’t as inconspicuous as they had thought, it will still serve as an adequate place to lodge.  Steeljaw wants to find the best room and claim it ahead of time.

He’ll put Thunderhoof in the room across from him, nearby.  Steeljaw smiles and then the smile plummets into a frown of annoyance when he tries to turn on a light and the bulb shatters.  He sighs into the darkness and his optics glow and adjust.  He supposes this will work just fine too, until they can rework the lighting in the warehouse.

“Just exploded on ya, huh?”

Steeljaw glances over his shoulder to see Thunderhoof standing there, still all bloodsmeared with an oilcloth in his hands which has more or less been rendered useless since it is already sopping with spilled energon.  He raises an eyebrow and Thunderhoof just shrugs.  Nothing for it.  Stains of bright violet are spattered against Thunderhoof’s mouth; this close, Steeljaw can count the droplets.

“First thing we need in this place is washracks,” Steeljaw mutters as he turns back around.

“Y’got that right,” Thunderhoof grumbles in agreement.  “This dries, ‘s gonna be a pain in the aft to scrub off.”  Steeljaw slips into the darkened room and looks around.  Seeing is no problem despite the burst bulb; his optics parse the shadows and find what’s beneath – a sad looking berth, a few shelves with scrap heaped on them, a half-empty bottle of high-grade on a side table. 

Thunderhoof spits and something splats against the floor.  Steeljaw whips around and sees Thunderhoof standing out there in the hallway, licking blood off of his forearm.  A twist of disgust upturns Thunderhoof’s mouth and Steeljaw can’t help but mirror it.

“What in the world are you doing, stop that, come here,” Steeljaw says, beckoning Thunderhoof into the room.

“I don’t want this mess dryin’ on me, a’right?” Thunderhoof insists but obeys anyway.  “You ever try t’get dried blood off your plating? Takes for-goddam-ever and stains the nanites somethin’ fierce.  I’d rather lick it clean now and wash my mouth out laters.”

“Don’t _spit_ on the floor,” Steeljaw hisses at him, pulling Thunderhoof close only to push him up against the nearest wall.  And Thunderhoof lets himself be pushed around without grumbling and stays still when Steeljaw puts his muzzle against his neck and starts lapping the blood away.  He’s still as Steeljaw works and gives no word of protest and around them the darkness is silent but every now and then, Steeljaw readjusts his position and his pede makes the glass of the broken bulb crackle underfoot.

“Really shoulda just gone back t’ that motel,” Thunderhoof says after his helm tilts back to let Steeljaw lick under his jaw. “Not that I don’t appreciate the personal groomin’.  Doubt it’s that fun for youse, though.”

“Don’t belittle my efforts,” Steeljaw huffs against Thunderhoof’s audial, which earns him a low laugh.  “You’re a sorry sight but you did good work and I’ll repay the favors owed me.  Though I think your debts might outweigh mine.”   He feels it against his cheek as Thunderhoof laughs.

“Lemme pay it forward to ya.”

“Hmph.”

 Steeljaw puts his face against Thunderhoof’s throat and cleans him and tells himself that it’s no great struggle to keep from scraping his fangs across the very trustingly exposed cables.  The blood is salty and rich and Thunderhoof is warm and his spark is whirring close; their chestplates scratch together at the open seams of the scars across their insignias.  Slowly – so slowly that every movement is telegraphed; Steeljaw feels the intentions before the action is even completed – Thunderhoof slides his hot, blood-sticky hands against Steeljaw’s hips and his fingers grip at him, gently.  It’s the easiest thing for Steeljaw to tilt his helm upwards and lick against Thunderhoof’s mouth.  It’s even easier when Thunderhoof opens his mouth and meets Steeljaw’s tongue, taking away tastes of blood and oral lubricants.

That’s as much as he gets, though.  Steeljaw pulls away after the moment and glares up at Thunderhoof.

“I don’t take dalliances as payment when hard work is what actually garners results,” he warns.  Thunderhoof snorts.

“I didn’t sign on to be the kept bot, Steeljaw,” he reminds him.  “I can kick aft just fine and if youse don’t want this then we can call it done.”

“I never said that,” Steeljaw growls gently.  He’s back to lapping the inside of Thunderhoof’s mouth, claws crawling up to hook into the lip of his collar plating and pull him down closer. The hands on his hips hold him with a measured desperation.  In every slow fluctuation of Thunderhoof’s field, there’s a thrum of lust reaching out to Steeljaw, trying to goad him into giving more, but Thunderhoof’s hands do not even dent his plating no matter how tightly he holds Steeljaw to himself. 

Their kiss is sour with the taste of old blood swiped across each other’s tongues but Steeljaw lets Thunderhoof suck on his tongue and lick at his fangs and his engine just _purrs_. Thunderhoof puts his hands all over Steeljaw’s aft and laughs when he feels Steeljaw’s tail wagging lazily back and forth.

“Can’t believe you didn’t find you no one to give you this kinda attention yet,” Thunderhoof murmurs right against Steeljaw’s ear and draws his ruddy tongue against the tip of it.  Steeljaw lets out a whuff of a sigh and rests his chin on Thunderhoof’s shoulder, standing on the tips of his pedes while Thunderhoof kneads at his aft.

“More important things to do,” is all he says.  The laughter in Thunderhoof’s chest feels so good when it hums right into Steeljaw’s. 

“Don’t mind a bit of this now, though, huh?”

“You don’t mind it.”

“’Course I don’t.”

“I’d love it if we could cut the banter; I’d rather be fucking you against the wall.”

The hot throb of interest from Thunderhoof’s field is a pretty prelude to the way he withdraws and then braces himself against the wall so Steeljaw gets a fine view of his interface panels retracting.  Thunderhoof’s valve lips are fat and wet with lubricant and there’s still blood spattered across his thighs and Steeljaw has half a mind to get down on his knees and give him another thorough cleaning.

“Later,” he promises himself.

“What’s that, boss?”

“I’ll clean my cum out of you with my tongue when I’m done.”

“Holy slag….”

Thunderhoof is by no means a light handful but Steeljaw gathers him up with both hands and lifts him, making those antlers scrape against the wall as he fits himself between Thunderhoof’s thighs.  His panels snap back and he growls soft against Thunderhoof’s neck before pulling him snugly down onto his spike and pushing up in shallow little thrusts.

“Jeez…,” Thunderhoof sighs out, his arms wrapping around Steeljaw’s shoulders as he bears down with what leverage he can.  His valve is tight and elastic, snug and soft, squeezing Steeljaw’s spike.  Thunderhoof’s spike is pretty considerable itself, rubbing hot against Steeljaw’s abdominal plating and making a mess.  Washracks, Steeljaw is thinking in the back of his mind, and then letting the thought slip away when Thunderhoof makes this low crooning noise and blushes hot against’ Steeljaw’s ear. 

“What’s got you so wound up?” Steeljaw asks, casual as you please, and can feel the thick drip of lubricants down his spike, down his thighs, as he rolls his hips up into Thunderhoof.

“Ain’t no one…ever picked me up…and done this,” Thunderhoof pants.  “’S fraggin’ hot….”

“If you like it, we can do it again,” Steeljaw says and is thanked with a moan and a tongue slipping into his mouth at the same time.  Thunderhoof’s hands rub at his neck and his shoulders and their chests scrape together.  One of them – who even knows which one – starts sending out spark pulses and they trade them back and forth, rapidly, in contrast to the slow push-and-press of Steeljaw’s spike against the soaking mesh of Thunderhoof’s valve.

Steeljaw could do this for hours.  His hands hold Thunderhoof steady and scratch lines into his hips and it feels like he’s made the world his own.  Thunderhoof offers no warning but a grunted out curse and then his whole body is shuddering, convulsing hard in Steeljaw’s hold.  A mess gushes between them and makes soft wet sounds on the floor. It’s amazing and Steeljaw can’t believe Thunderhoof just overloaded from some gentle fucking with a little protected sparkplay.  He draws Thunderhoof’s body off of himself and lets him down to rest against the wall while he holds him there, captive between his arms, spike still pressurized and dripping wet.  Bright red eyes are dizzy and Steeljaw loves that fucked-stupid look on Thunderhoof’s face because he still looks like he’s ready to rip anyone to shreds even with his swollen valve dripping all over himself.

Steeljaw just wants to swallow him whole, he’s so gorgeous.

“Thought youse was gonna make a mess of my insides,” Thunderhoof says between gasps and reaches between his legs to spread the lips of his valve where a few beads of lubricant leak out. 

“You were just looking forward to what would come afterwards,” Steeljaw says with a grin as he braces the underside of Thunderhoof’s thigh and lines himself up again.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I still am.”

Steeljaw pushes back into sloppy wetness of Thunderhoof’s valve and there’s that escalation again, that sudden burst of heat all over his insides.  His spark is already reaching out again for its new playmate and Thunderhoof practically _whines_ as he picks up the exchange.  Steeljaw licks at Thunderhoof’s throat and humps against him with a little more ferocity now that he has the wall to brace against and less weight to carry.  He feels the fumble of Thunderhoof’s hand as he rubs at his exterior node, trying to milk another overload out in time with Steeljaw’s.  And Steeljaw doesn’t know if Thunderhoof manages it but he muffles the roar of his own overload with his teeth around Thunderhoof’s neck.  He tastes blood.  Fresh. 

Steeljaw licks it up as he presses in that much closer.  He’ll stay here a while yet with his spike still buried inside of Thunderhoof.  It’s nice….  It’s nice even though it was just a quick fuck in the dark.  Steeljaw laps and laps at the bitemark on Thunderhoof’s neck and his spark is still bumping out waves of delight and pleasure in response to Thunderhoof’s very overwhelmed but contented hums. 

“Y’tail’s waggin’,” Thunderhoof mumbles and Steeljaw huffs out a hot pant of breath when Thunderhoof decides that he’s got nothing better to do but kiss and lick and mouth all over Steeljaw’s ears.   His spike twitches and another hot gush of transfluid fills Thunderhoof’s valve, making them both moan.  Thunderhoof goes back to pawing all over Steeljaw’s aft, mouth still busy with his ears.

And, yeah, Steeljaw’s tail is definitely wagging.  It’s still wagging even after he makes good on his promise and gets down on his knees with the intention of cleaning the mess he’s made. 

* * *

 They end up slumped on the floor because the berth in the room doesn’t look stable enough to hold the both of them.  Thunderhoof leans up against Steeljaw’s side and is definitely snoozing.  Steeljaw himself considers taking a nap for maybe an hour or so.  And when he wakes up, they can go get some energon and maybe scope out a few places where they can start recruiting members.

In his sleep, Thunderhoof snuffles and Steeljaw’s ear flicks when the heat of his breath gusts across it.  It’s almost unbearably warm, pressed up together like this but Steeljaw can’t find it in himself to move.  He turns over plans, possible locales where sympathetic audials will want to hear his whispers, methods of drawing mechs to his way of thinking.  And as he schemes in the darkness he tucks his head against the side of Thunderhoof’s neck.

For now it’s just nice to pretend that the war is over.  When he’s done pretending, Thunderhoof will still be there.  And that’s nice too.


End file.
